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“Dedicated to Ben Rankins for handing me the key to the photocopier.” And what advantage did they take of that photocopier–this is a thick zine of poems, but not any kind. More so those that are brief, but not curt, and belong not so much on pages as they do on billboards. Wittier than text-artist Lawrence Weiner and almost funnier than poet Linda Stitt, these are fantastical ramblings that never take up more than half a page (which is nice). But where is the line between fact and fiction? Between the typewritten poems, there are pages of a Charles Freeman book and scribbled music notations. One of the best has got to be “Happy,” if not how the real is laced into prose, than because of how it ends: “I started lying and couldn’t stop. I stole babies in shopping centres and told people that I was the father. As the babies grew up my lies got bigger and bigger until one day I looked around and realized I was happy.” (Nadja Sayej)

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